


Sex Doesn't Alarm Me

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Deductions, Fingerfucking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up in an interesting situation and has to deduce what might have led to it... then he has to break the reality of the situation to John.</p><p>Edit: If you were one of the first 95 people to read this, I apologize. I had extra text that I meant to delete... a first attempt that I hated. I'm so sorry. *blush* It's gone now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlanketAffinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlanketAffinity/gifts).



> This was written for a Johnlockchallenges Gift Exchange. My prompt was "after sex awkwardness." I really hope frauleinninja enjoys it! <3

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to continued blindness, but the faint pressure of cloth pulled taught across his face and the rake of his eyelashes against fabric suggest it was both temporary and purposefully imposed. More fabric—the same or similar from what he could tell –weakly secured his wrists near his head and precluded him from removing the obstruction. _Don’t panic. There’s no cause for alarm._ Except there was… because _John_. Who had done this to Sherlock and what— _oh, god_ –what might they have done to John? But there was no time for hysteria when there were deductions in such desperate need of deducing, and even in his reduced state of efficacy, Sherlock could and would still deduce.

Vision and touch were only small parts of what Sherlock used to do what he did, to do what he was capable of doing. Leaving him with his other senses would prove to be a regrettable mistake. And if a single sandy blond hair on John’s head had been harmed… well… mistake wasn’t quite a strong enough word. Other words that were close but not quite enough would include but would not be limited to: torture, vengeance, and destruction. If John had been hurt, London would burn, and the blaze would be known as Sherlock bloody Holmes.

He wriggled in the restraints, and his muscles punished him for it. His next breath came as sharp as the pain in his shoulders, back, and arms. _Been here a while, six hours, maybe seven._ And soft light flooded through his blindfold. If he was in his bed—and he we certain he was – the directionality of the window through which the sun shone meant it was late… quite late.

Sherlock dug his heels into the mattress— _his mattress_ –and winced at the ache in his calves and thighs as he pressed himself into a more properly seated position. Maybe he had run from someone— _or after someone?_ –perhaps a physical scuffle…

And there was something else. _Moisture—but only slight._ The sheet clung to his thigh—his _aching_ thigh –the high quality cotton brushing his groin. There was still something else though—an obvious, how-the-fuck-am-I-missing-this something else. But it was so hard to think. Why was it so bloody hard to think? _Drugged?_ He could have been drugged, _must_ have been drugged.

But if he was drugged, blindfolded, and restrained, that meant John was the real target—the target of… of… something. And— _oh, god_ –where the hell was John?

_Think. Just think._ His head thrummed with pain making it almost impossible, but it was important. It was important because _John._

He closed his eyes against the blindness, and there it was. The big, stupid, obvious thing he was missing suddenly flooded his senses. _Naked._ He was naked— _but… why?_

 And now that he was observing again, the air reeked of musk. It filled his nostrils with each breath, but not just musk… something else… something less familiar. He slowed down and focused on his breathing, but he still couldn’t think, couldn’t make out the other scent. Mostly because each of his long, slow breaths was punctuated by a symphony of shorter, snurfflier ones. Calm, even, sleepy, satisfied breaths, and— _stupid, stupid, stupid.  
  
_ How hadn’t he noticed the extra weight in the bed next to him? There was a body at his side, and the aforementioned breathing suggested it was alive—whether or not that was a relief was yet to be determined. Then the not-a-corpse— _not **ye** t a corpse, depending on the circumstances_ –stirred. Sherlock’s whole body tensed— _what now? what now?_ –and the limp bulk of a sleep-addled arm fell heavy across his abdomen. And then something hot and firm was thrust against his same bare thigh… hot, firm, and _moist_ —the same thin, sticky moisture from the sheet. So, with an arm at his abdomen, the rigid heat pressed just below his hip—based on the fairly accurate science of human anatomy –could be nothing other than a penis, engorged and erect. And, in the process of narrowing down a list of likely suspects, the information was significant, at least so far as it eliminated everyone who most likely possessed a vagina instead.

And what Sherlock didn’t realize amidst his recent rush of information was the fact he had stopped thinking of John entirely, because _this_ —him tied up, blindfolded, and naked with an arm about his middle and a cock against his leg –wasn’t something he wanted John to see. Suddenly it was to do with sex, and suddenly Sherlock ‘sex doesn’t alarm me’ Holmes was alarmed. When _The Woman_ had referred to his brother as _The Iceman_ and him as _The Virgin_ , he had done well not to react—no matter how true both titles may have been. But it seemed Mycroft’s iciness remained where his virginity did not, and he couldn’t even bloody remember how it happened or who he had been with.

There remained only one certainty: Sherlock had to get out of his restraints. Tearing was impossible. Tugging was worthless. Torqueing seemed to loosen the hold, but only minutely.  _Ah! But twisting!_ Twisting might work. Collapsing his hand into the thinnest shape possible, he twisted back and forth from the wrist, working and wriggling his way out of the make-shift cuff.

With one hand free, the other quickly followed. Then, timidly—more timidly than Sherlock would ever admit –he moved to discard his blindfold. There was importance to the information he was about to receive, even if he wished there wasn’t. The list of people he would like to see—genuinely _not regret_ seeing –was far shorter than its counterpart. If I’m being completely honest—and why should I be? –there would be only one name on that list, and that name was… _IMPOSSIBLE!_ With blindfold removed and his vision returned, the name on the list matched the face in the bed, and Sherlock nearly squeaked. And by nearly, I mean actually… but it was quiet enough that no one could prove it, not even the sleeping John Watson at his side. And the calm drumbeat of his heart became the pounding of a hammer and his lungs must have shrunk to half their normal capacity.

Sherlock’s eyes dragged slowly down John’s body once before a pale blush—yet another thing he’ll never admit –fell across his cheeks. He looked away and shamed himself, because it was beyond implausible to believe such a sight was one to which he was entitled. In fact, the facts had started to suggest it was nothing to do with sex after all.

Had anyone else been lying next to him—Lestrade, Molly, Donovan, perhaps even Mycroft under the right (read: terribly wrong) circumstances, even Anderson (god forbid) –anyone else at all, Sherlock might have been so bold as to rationalize post-coital bliss— _or horror, depending on the bed mate_ – but not John.  
  
It wasn’t that John wasn’t interested. It was how intensely John refused to believe he was interested. And having been drugged was looking more and more like the only explanation. But, if ever it was meant to happen—if ever _they_ were meant to happen –this was most certainly not the way. Even if forever stricken from his memory banks, Sherlock would never, _could_ never regret it—not for himself. John though— _oh, god_ –John would never recover. So if sex couldn’t be the explanation, then sex wouldn’t be the explanation. And it was up to Sherlock to work out what really happened for peace of mind, for _John’s_ peace of mind.

He slipped from beneath an arm he could happily have stayed under forever and slid from the bed. The quickest and easiest tool at his disposal was the ultraviolet light from his bureau, and he nervously pointed bulb toward bed before clicking it on. And in the interest of delicacy, I shouldn’t say the sheets lit up like an evergreen on Christmas morning, messily decorated by a palsy victim with a paintball gun. I shouldn’t, so I won’t. But, the truth is, they did. And— _oh, god_ –what would he tell John?

Sherlock made his way to the parlour and paced, because what else did he need to know? The truth seemed far too truthy to deny, and not telling John what happened would be unforgiveable. At least he could provide a bit of comfort. British is as British does, so Sherlock would have to make tea. _And breakfast?_ People in movies incessantly made breakfast for their partner the morning after a sexual conquest. _Partner? Sexual conquest? Oh, god._ Out of kindness, we won’t discuss how long Sherlock spent curled on the sofa, cloaked in his blue dressing gown of a security blanket, and rocking. But it may have been twenty-eight minutes and thirty-six seconds, and he may have only stopped when John padded into the room, yawning, stretching, and rubbing his hands sleepily through his hair.

“John!” Sherlock scrambled to his feet, fidgeting. “I… hi… I mean… you should—” His eyes darted around the room before he nodded to John’s chair. “—sit!”

John chuckled a drowsy chuckle. “You alright?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. I… just… sit. Please?”

“Please?” John pursed his lips and took a seat. “Sounds serious.”

Sherlock perched on the chair across from him, quickly dismounted, and started to pace again. “John… I have to tell you something. And I ask that you let me finish before you say anything. I’m just… not very good at this.”

“Since when is there something you aren’t very good at?”

“Please, John. I need to get this out,” Sherlock barked, and John remained quiet, which meant Sherlock had to find the words to tell John what only he knew to be true about what they’d done. “Do you trust me, John? Do you trust my skills of deduction?”

John straightened a bit in his seat, tensed slightly. “Implicitly. Why? S’wrong?”

“When I awoke this morning, I was… blindfolded. My wrists were secured, though not well, to my bed. My muscles—shoulders, arms, back, thighs, and calves –ached. And… well… I… I mean… you…” Sherlock began pacing again, scrubbing his palms into his curls. “We were lying side by side and… well… naked.” He didn’t even chance a glance at John. “At first I didn’t even know you were… you. I mean, I couldn’t see, and I thought… I mean… I _worried_ you’d been the victim of… something. But then I thought maybe it was to do with sex instead, so I didn’t think you could be you. I mean…” A long pause. “Dammit!” He smacked his fist hard on the mantle. “I can’t think, can’t articulate. I…” He sighed and went to his knees in front of John, timidly took John’s hands. “When I realized you were you, I tried to find another interpretation of the facts. I searched and hoped for… for… _it_ to have some other explanation. But there was none, and I… you… I mean… we—yes, I suppose, we – _we_ must have had sex. And I know you might be alarmed… but it’s fine… I mean… I think we were drugged, and I don’t regret—I mean remember –I don’t remember it… or regret it. After waiting over thirty years, if it had to be someone, I’m glad it was you.” He fidgeted with the hand he held between his own. “Nothing has to change. No one needs to know. I know I… I’m not always discreet… but I can be… I _will be_. I’m only talking about it now because… well… you… you deserved to know. I just… just… don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Oh, god, you look distraught.”

“Well—” John cleared his throat and shifted in the chair but didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he traced the sinewy lines of Sherlock’s hands. “—you admitted yourself to having said quite a few distressing things. And I would have to agree… some of that was indeed distressing.”

“You’re upset that… that we… had—”

“No.” John scoffed, his lips twitching into a thin smile. “I could have told you that, love.”

“You… knew?”

John nodded. “I remember it all rather vividly, if I’m honest.”

“And you regret it, possibly because of your perceived sexual orientation, but more likely because my inexperience led to an unsatisfactory performance.”

“Noooo… no, no no… I’m sorry to say you couldn’t have gotten that more wrong if you’d tried. No… just no. I’m distraught you’ve forgotten how bloody amazing it was. Was it… I mean… not that it’s any of my business… but… was it really your first time?”

And Sherlock had nearly forgotten he’d admitted that, hoped John hadn’t heard it. But he had, and John had. So, he simply nodded. “I meant what I said. I’m glad it was you. But why do you remember?”

John’s grin widened. “You warned me ‘bout this. Told me I might have to explain it as best I could. Do you remember having a headache yesterday?”

And Sherlock didn’t… not really… nothing more than maybe the vaguest recollection.

“Well, you did. A bloody awful one too. Bad enough you tried to cure it, and you thought you’d nearly done it… until the side effects. Over-stimulation of the senses, sexual arousal... and, if I might be so bold as to add one to the list, brazen honesty. You warned me memory loss might follow, told me I might have to explain this. You assured me it would be temporary, but I rather hoped it wouldn’t happen at all.”

“When will I remember?” Because— _oh, god_ –Sherlock wanted to remember.

“Not a clue.” John pulled Sherlock to his feet, tugged him into his lap. His breath was hot against Sherlock’s ear when he continued, “But I’d be happy to remind you— _step. by. step_.” And for the next forty-two minutes and eighteen seconds, that’s precisely what he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reminds Sherlock of what happened the night before.

Sherlock allowed himself to be led to the kitchen where John poised him in front of the remnants of his failed—not quite failed, but certainly misinterpreted –experiment.

“You stood right here,” John explained and turned Sherlock toward him, “and you said, ‘My head still hurts, John, and everything is too much—too hot, too loud, too bright, too… _hard_ –and I need you.’ And you took my hand and…” John pressed his palm flat against Sherlock’s groin, over the spot where the zip of his trousers would have been. “You just kept saying you needed me, and I’m not too proud to admit that I wanted you to need me.”

“Then what?” Sherlock breathed, feeling himself stiffen under John’s touch.

“You led me to your room and laid on your bed.”

And Sherlock did as John instructed.

“We stripped off your clothes.” John untied Sherlock’s dressing gown and slowly peeled it open, coaxing his arms from the sleeves. “Mine as well.” He shrugged off his own dressing gown and straddled Sherlock’s waist. “And I remember thinking how fucking beautiful you were. So, I kissed you… just like this.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against John’s kiss, parted his lips, and felt their tongues curl around one another. The heat of their breath passed from one mouth to the other and back again. And Sherlock moaned.

John broke the kiss, panting a bit. “That’s what you did before, and… _oh, god_ —” His cock twitched. “—Sherlock Holmes moaning might be the most glorious sound the world has ever heard, and I told you so.”

Sherlock squirmed under John’s weight, desperate for friction he wouldn’t soon find. “What did we do next?”

“You—” John pressed his  thumb to Sherlock’s lips and seemed to briefly short out when Sherlock sucked it in. “ _Fuck_.” He shook his head as if to reaffirm his grip on reality. “You took my prick between those pretty little lips and sucked… just like that.”

“Like this?” Sherlock tugged John’s hips forward and dropped his head toward the erection jutting out toward him.

“Y-you don’t have to.” John was quick to point out.

“But I should—” Sherlock lapped at the drop of pre-cum forming at John’s slit. “—for historical accuracy.” Those were the words he spoke, but what he meant was, ‘Dear lord, I want your cock in my mouth, and please, please, _please_ tell me you came down my throat.’

“If you insist.” John nodded and pressed himself between Sherlock’s lips with a groan.

Fingers tightened and loosened in Sherlock’s curls, the prick in his mouth swelling more with each thrust. And he used his tongue to read John’s cock like braille, to map and memorize every vein and ridge. Forgetting it once was a tragedy he wouldn’t be soon to repeat. A few moments later, he pulled his mouth off with a pop. “Did I make you cum?”

John whimpered, gave a terse nod, and spoke breathlessly, “With… your… fingers…” He fumbled around beneath the pillows and pulled out a small bottle of lube. “Never… suspected… I was… your first.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a wide grin as he slicked his fingers and teased at John’s I-wish-I-remembered-being-in-there entrance, the one all too eager to accept two long, thin digits. And Sherlock swallowed John’s length again as he pressed them inside.

The involuntary lurch of John’s body and the bucking of his hips roughly forced his cock to the back of Sherlock’s throat. “You… alright?”

The gentle humming against John’s prick was meant to serve as a yes, and the measured pressure against his prostate acted as the punctuation to an unspoken reply. John’s heartbeat thrummed against Sherlock’s tongue, the ring of muscle around his fingers beginning to tighten as he took the first steps toward ripping an orgasm from John’s body. And with John’s hands fisted into the sheets on either side of Sherlock’s head, all panting and wincing and piteous whines, his cock pulsed and his body went rigid. Whines turned to groans, groans turned to yelps, and yelps… yelps turned to a loud string of expletives in which John turned Sherlock’s name into something beautifully profane. Sherlock caught and suckled every last drop of his praise, savouring the heat and sensation as it hit his palate and slid down his throat. And the sound of John’s last choked off sob was nearly enough to make Sherlock cum with him—because, when you make someone so strong sound so vulnerable and desperate, who needs friction?

Sherlock bit his bottom lip to distract himself and pulled John into a bruising kiss. “And then?”

“I… I don’t… remember… I can’t… think.”

“Try, John.” Sherlock bit hard at John’s bottom lip and soothed over it with his tongue. “Please.”

“You… you said you felt too much, heard and saw too much. So, you asked me to tie you up, blindfold you, and get your earplugs. And I did.”

“Can we skip them?”

John’s irises were almost completely obscured by the black of his pupils, and he trembled where he sat. “I thought maybe you didn’t want to look at me.”

John would never have admitted that in his right mind, and Sherlock knew it. “There’s nothing I want more than to look at you.”

“And historical accuracy?”

“To hell with it. Those memories may return, but right now I just want you. I always just want you.”

No sooner did Sherlock remove his fingers, John sank onto his cock for the second time in less than twelve hours. But sometimes a second time feels like a first time, and Sherlock was certain it always would. And when an Army doctor is as sexually talented with his hips as he is surgically talented with his hands, a consulting detective often realizes just how lucky he is. And— _oh, god_ – he _was_ lucky.

With each roll of John’s body came a rush of euphoria, pleasure being pulled and tugged from Sherlock’s core. His eyes blew dark, and his blood ran hot. His knees bent at John’s back as he thrust himself up and in, harder and deeper than seemed sane or reasonable. And it went on for— _oh, god_ –he actually didn’t know. Because Sherlock had found something more rewarding than being meticulous, than cataloguing and collecting data. And when passion coiled low in his spine and slithered up to the base of his cock, he didn’t care how long it had been and focused solely on how much longer it could last. He tried to hold on, like grasping at a flicker in the dark, but it wouldn’t do.

And John only just hung on as Sherlock bucked so hard he lifted both hips and rider clear off the mattress. His lips formed around John’s name and spat it into the air as he came, a feeling he should have recognized but still couldn’t remember. His fingernails dug into John’s hip bones where they held arse flush with groin as his cock jerked and twitched and erupted hard and hot. His vision blurred; his body tensed, and losing control had never felt so good or so freeing.

And when Sherlock came down, John nestled at his side, he asked the only question he truly wanted answered. “Why did you let me—”

Or, rather, he had begun to ask when John cut him off with an answer so clear and concise and without a moment of hesitation. “Because I loved you.”

“And do you—”

“Still? Yes. Of course.”

“John… I—”

“You don’t have to feel the same way. I’ve accepted you might not, accepted you may never—”

“But I do. When I thought I’d been incapacitated so someone might cause you harm, I panicked. And when I realized what had actually happened and thought of removing my blindfold and seeing _not you_ , I already felt the twinge of regret. And when I saw the person who couldn’t be you _was_ , in fact, you… I hoped I’d find an explanation that would disappoint me in order to lend you comfort. I don’t know much about love, John… but if that’s not love, then I hope it’s good enough.”

And John smiled up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “It’s better than any ‘I love you too’ and blows ‘good enough’ right out of the water.”

The next time they awoke, Sherlock remembered everything—from their first and second times alike –and losing his virginity whilst completely deprived of his senses was only the first in a long line of things they would later explore behind closed doors… in the back of cabs… down alleyways… in the occasional public loo… on the tube, but only once… and… well… if you keep your eyes peeled, you might just catch a glimpse of them exploring each other one day, but only if you’re very, very lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't want to read the smut, you should stop at the end of chapter 1. Just sayin'!


End file.
